


Intermezzo

by kamextoise



Series: Music and Manuscripts [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, SCIFI AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamextoise/pseuds/kamextoise
Summary: If the citizens of Central Station cared, they might try to discourage the use of pubs as a meeting place for criminals, but then, Central Station wouldn’t be the most populous trading hub in the sector.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pokerap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokerap/gifts).



The darkness of interstellar space can be a lonely place, it’s why hardly anyone travels alone. Even at its absolute fastest, travel is still a slow, irritating process. It’s why ships are large, and more like large, uncomfortable homes. Another reason to avoid traveling alone—pirates. With civilization stretched so thing, and with settlement populations varying so drastically, those that would cause harm are right at home.

If the citizens of Central Station cared, they might try to discourage the use of pubs as a meeting place for criminals, but then, Central Station wouldn’t be the most populous trading hub in the sector. 

Zolf J Kimbley might not have the fiercest reputation, but he _does_ have a reputation. It was why he was able to get the crew he has, and why stalking into the pub nearest the landing strip gets a big whoop from a few members of the crew. It’s dark and seedy; not the sort of place most would willingly go. He scans the room, lazily, and smiles when he spots his target—a man sitting by himself, ignoring his drink for a hard-bound book. Hands in his pockets, Kimbley slinks over to the man, sliding into the booth. The man looks up with his good eye, unamused. “If it isn’t my favorite Captain,” Kimbley drawls.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Archer says evenly, drumming his robotic arm along the table, looking unimpressed, but after a moment he smirks. “I thought you were busy dealing with that cop.” He sits back in the booth, closing the book he had been reading. Somehow, the man Kimbley has rarely ever seen not look serious relaxes a little. Like maybe he’d been waiting for the other man.

It honestly wouldn’t surprise Kimbley if Archer had been waiting for him here. They do have ways of meeting up that seem accidental, but probably aren’t accident at all.

“I lost him a while back, I doubt he’d track me here.” Central is enormous, after all, and Kimbley has always been an overconfident man. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “When was the last time we met? It’s a little hard to tell when you’re constantly busy.” Even if by ‘busy’ he means something nefarious. 

Archer’s lips curl into the slightest of smiles, “It’s been a few months, I’d say. I’ve been otherwise occupied. I needed to hire a new crew, you see. I’m sure you understand.”

Kimbley laughs, shaking his head reaching out to grab at Archer’s glass, half-empty. “That’s, what, the fifth crew you’ve gone through since I met you?” He drinks from the glass, even as Archer pulls a face at him.

“The third,” he mutters, grabbing the drink back from Kimbley. “Why don’t you buy your own drink?”

“Why should I, when you have good tastes?”

Archer sighs, rubbing at his head left-handed, giving Kimbley a good look at the false arm, and the little seams that betray the location of the hidden weapons here and there. Only Captain Frank Archer would use losing a limb, as well as part of his face, as an excuse to give himself even more weapons. “Did you need something, or did you just come here to bother me?”

At that, the younger man laughs. “We haven’t seen each other in a long time, and you’re going to come and ask me something like that? That’s not fair at all.” He reaches out again, this time for Archer’s right arm, so skin meets skin. “I was hoping we could have some fun, you know. Relax a little. Catch up.” It’s worded casually, carefully. Just a bit of fun for a little while, before the two of them need to part ways again.

If Kimbley were honest with himself, he’d admit he looks forward to these encounters, because they don’t happen often, because he always finds himself looking for Archer in particular when he lands in a new place. Because it’s been years since he’s slept around.

If Archer is having similar thoughts, they don’t show on his face. “I have time for that,” he says, finishing his drink.


	2. Chapter 2

The rooms behind the pub aren’t the cleanest Kimbley has been in. The sheets are clean, of course, and there’s no sign the room had used earlier in the day, but it’s still a little… dirty. Not that he’s going to let it bother him as he tidies up the room a little before Archer enters, locking the door behind him. “You’re more eager than usual,” he notes, motioning to Kimbley, who is already unbuttoning his shirt, leather jacket cast aside.

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m always in the mood for a fuck,” Kimbley says casually. Just because it’s been a while doesn’t mean he isn’t interested, after all. There’s a half-open drawer in the nightstand, which probably contains all manner of unseemly things—some of which are probably incredibly unsanitary, really.

He’d refuse to touch most of them even with gloves on.

“You want to skip all of the talking, then?” Archer says, starting to tug at his own clothing, a lot more delicately than Kimbley.

“Yeah, sure.”

At that, Archer smirks, straightening up a little as he strides over to Kimbley, cupping his chin in a rough grip. “Then what are you in the mood for?” Kimbley’s look is hungry, dangerous. He reaches up, gripping at Archer’s arm, completely unintimidated, even as his gaze flickers to the prominent false eye.

“Why don’t we go ahead and do something like old times,” he purrs, locking his gaze with the other man.

“I was hoping you’d say something like that.” Archer’s smirk broadens, and he pulls Kimbley into a deep kiss. He shoves Kimbley to the bed—gently, too gently. They used to be rougher with each other, but Kimbley doesn’t actually remember the last time they _were_ aggressive, the last time one made the other bleed. He still has scars from some of their first few encounters. 

“You want to see if there’re any handcuffs in that drawer?” Kimbley drawls. 

Archer looks smug. “A shame that cop didn’t follow you here. We could have killed him and used his.”

“Hell no, do you know how uncomfortable that would be? Metal cuffs aren’t meant to play in. That’s a good way to end up with a broken wrist.” But Kimbley’s smirking, too. Maybe if he was younger, the idea would be more appealing. The other man makes a loud _tsk_ noise, but it’s mock disappointment at most. A moment of searching through the drawer, with a mildly disgusted look on his face yields the result Kimbley was hoping for, and he pulls out a pair of leather handcuffs, tying Kimbley’s arms to the headboard without effort. Kimbley tests them out carefully, giving a satisfied grin when it meets his satisfaction. 

Archer pulls out a knife, testing it carefully. It’s on the dull side; though that doesn’t stop Kimbley’s look of anticipation. “It’s been a long time since I’ve interrogated you,” he purrs, leaning on top of Kimbley, pressing the dull side of the knife to his jaw. His expression shifts into something more calculated. “I’ve warned you before, haven’t I?” he says in a low voice, “about what happens when you let your guard down.”

“Yeah, what are you going to do about it?” Kimbley hisses.

“Quiet,” Archer murmurs, pressing the knife against flesh. Kimbley makes another noise, a hiss of pain as blade meets skin, blood welling up against the knife. Archer pulls it away at once, looking startled. “Sorry,” he says, dropping the act immediately.

The younger man raises his brows incredulously. “Seriously? You used to do more damage than that.” But Archer sets the knife aside, gently wiping the blood on Kimbley’s chin away. When the hell did they get like this? Kimbley’s gaze flickers, uncertain. He could pull out of the cuffs if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t. Because he _wants_ this, even if he doesn’t know what to do with Archer being gentle with him.

He returns to form soon enough, the concerned look replaced with a classic smirk. “Well then, where were we?”

**

It’s only afterwards, with the two of them looped together in the bed, that it occurs to Kimbley he should have let someone on his ship know he’d probably be a while. He doesn’t move from where he is, but he does frown, thinking about the best way to peel himself away without pissing off the man he spends more time than he should with. It takes Archer a moment to notice, but when he does, he raises a brow, not even opening his good eye. “What?”

“Nothing. I just figured I should get going.”

“Already?” Kimbley stares at that, and Archer sits up, rubbing at his head. “I should probably be going as well, I suppose. The crew will wonder where I am.” He stands, watching Kimbley dress hurriedly, even as he starts to dress carefully as always. Leaving after meeting up shouldn’t be so awkward between them. It should be a fling, a way to get off. When did they start getting all of these feelings?

If there was one thing, he’d like, it would be to return to the way things used to be, when he knew where they stood, before everything started to get so complicated. He wouldn’t call Archer a friend, isn’t even sure if the guy is someone he could rely on in a crisis, but he also knows he wouldn’t want to be in a situation like this with anyone else. Not anymore. He doesn’t have a need for flings, and has never been the best about trusting people to begin with.

He strides over to Archer. “Maybe we should actually keep in touch for a change, hm?” he says, his tone light. He adjusts the man’s coat, making sure it looks perfect, just the way the man prefers it. 

“Perhaps.” Archer leans in, picking at a stray thread on Kimbley’s shirt. “Maybe I should hire you.”

“And leave my crew in the dust? Be serious, now. I take care of my guys.” 

“Oh? And what if I said your men could come with you?” Archer moves to grip at Kimbley’s ponytail, playing with it with an expression far gentler than his normal look. Kimbley makes an impatient noise, but he leans against Archer just the same.

“I guess that wouldn’t be so bad. But I like my ship.” A sound from somewhere in the bar gets both of their attentions, interrupting the conversation before Archer even has a chance to give a retort. “What the hell was that?” Kimbley stares at the door.

“Gunshots?” Archer’s already drawing his own weapon.

“Oh, hell, are you serious?” Kimbley hisses, hurrying up so he can pull his own weapon free from its pack. “Did that fucker follow me here?” It doesn’t sound like the guy trailing him, bursting into a building when Kimbley isn’t in plain sight, but that hardly matters right now. He’s already slinging his pack around his hips, glaring at the door. “We probably have five minutes before someone tries to break down the door. You ready to take on some assholes for shooting up our favorite spot?”

Archer looks serious, his eye narrowing, reaching up at his left eye to adjust something Kimbley can’t see from where he’s standing. “Let’s go.”


	3. Chapter 3

When they bust open the door, the pub is in chaos. Several men in red uniforms Kimbley has never seen before are shooting what looks like is at random, but might more than just a random assault. He doesn’t have much time to assess the situation, too much in a hurry to try and get to shelter. The owners of the pub are holding off well enough, even with several people already on the ground. This is his favorite pub, why the hell did he have to show up on the night someone decided the place needed to be redecorated? “Come on,” Archer snarls, grabbing Kimbley and shoving him behind an upturned table. “Do you know them?”

“Hell, no! They’re not the cops, how the hell should I know who they are?”

Archer smirks. “So you won’t mind if I kill them,” he says, twisting around, flipping open the wrist of his false arm, revealing a gun that goes off with a blast, hitting one of the men square in the chest. The man collapses in a heap, and Archer lets out a breathy noise that could be a laugh if the situation weren’t so tense. “One down,” he murmurs to himself as he ducks down to reload, glancing over at Kimbley firing shots at another man.

“Where did these assholes come from?”

A shot rings near them, too close for comfort, and Archer motions for Kimbley to follow him towards the bar. Kimbley moves first, leaping over it, picking off one of the men in red easily. “I haven’t seen them before,” Archer responds after a moment, his tone tense. 

“Neither have I,” Kimbley mutters, staring at Archer. The other man isn’t paying attention right now, but you know. Just in case. He’s too busy pulling back the false hand on his left arm, revealing a hidden gun he uses to shoot one of the attackers square in the chest. The situation is too tense, too many things could go wrong. Archer hasn’t even hidden himself yet.

There’s another shot fired, before Archer can completely hide behind the bar. It hits him in the shoulder, a hot searing gash along his arm, deep enough to start bleeding immediately. Kimbley shoots the aggressor in the head, his hands shaking. As soon as the man goes down, he dives down behind the bar, pulling off Archer’s shirt even while the older man protests. “Shut up, shut up!” Kimbley hisses rubbing at his face, startled by the wetness on his hand, even as he pulls a medical kit out from his pack. He isn’t going to acknowledge it. He refuses to acknowledge it. 

Archer falls silent, staring at Kimbley as he cleans the wound –to which Archer responds with a loud curse—and begins to stitch it up with the precision of someone a little too used to on-the-go stitches, and a neat dressing of the injury. It’ll leave a nasty scar, but all Kimbley can think about at the moment is how close to an artery the injury was.

If there’s anyone else left alive in the pub, Kimbley doesn’t know. He needs to contact his men—to know who survived, if anyone’s heard of these bizarre people who would shoot up a pub in Central Station without fear of starting some sort of war with a rival group. There’s movement behind them, some mutter and what’s probably bits and pieces of a conversation. A good sign that there’s someone alive in the pub, but right now Kimbley doesn’t care, leaning up against Archer gingerly, careful not to put pressure on the injury.

“…Thank you,” Archer says after a while.

He wouldn’t have done that for just anyone. It’s a favor reserved only for his crew, and yet Kimbley barely thought about bandaging Archer, working as though on autopilot. “Yeah. You’re welcome,” he murmurs. It takes everything in him not to start shaking again. He’s quiet for a while, hand on his radio. “I should call my guys. See if anyone’s even alive.”

Archer doesn’t reply. He looks ill, paler than usual, which probably isn’t a shock given the blood loss. “I don’t know who those men were, but it’s likely not safe for either of us to stay here. If something has happened, you’re free to come with me.” He stands, unsteadily, and Kimbley can’t help but help steady the older man, watching Archer warily. He’s not even paying attention to the survivors in the bar mingling with each other, asking what the hell they’re supposed to do.

“I need to see if my guys are okay, you’ve gotta do the same, right?” Maybe. Archer has gone through a few too many crews. It might be safer if Archer sticks with him, even if he does have a reputation that will make Kimbley’s men less than thrilled.

**

An hour later, Kimbley’s men have all assembled—there’s five of them, all accounted for. Archer’s crew, much larger than Kimbley’s had suffered losses, but still… it’s something. “The ship ain’t going anywhere,” one of his men told Kimbley, so off they went to Archer’s ship, like it wasn’t a big deal. He’d purposefully left out who, exactly, they were hitching a ride with. As much as Kimbley likes being around the man, the one-eyed pirate hadn’t exactly made himself popular.

“You can’t be serious,” one of the men hiss, before Kimbley shoots him a look and he falls silent.

Archer’s ship isn’t exactly small, but adding a half-dozen new people won’t make the trip pleasant. It’s fortunate Kimbley’s crew trust him. And that Archer has decided to be so generous. Maybe it’s some sort of equal exchange—a thank you for Kimbley patching him up so quickly, though that doesn’t seem quite right. Archer has killed people for losing their usefulness before.

“Join up with the rest of them in the bar or whatever,” Kimbley says, running his hands through his hair. “I’ll be up front. Buzz me if any of you get into trouble, but try not to. We’re supposed to be hitching a ride with these guys.” He dismisses them, watching them all enter the ship before he approaches Archer, who is waiting for him nearby. “I’m not letting you fly solo,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

Archer flushes slightly, brows furrowed. “If you insist.”

The younger man smirks. “Oh, I do.”


	4. Chapter 4

Kimbley slides into the co-pilot’s seat without prompting, and Archer stares at him for a long moment before turning the autopilot on, listening to it beep to life. “You should get some meds or something,” Kimbley says after a long moment, not looking at him. “I can get us off the ground.”

Archer raises a brow. “Have you ever—”

“Go get something for your arm,” Kimbley says, glancing at him, expression stony in a way Archer hasn’t ever seen before. “I can handle this.”

Archer stands, not sure how to feel about the carefree man suddenly giving him orders. Or why he feels compelled to follow them. A few minutes later, he returns, medication and water in hand as Kimbley finishes preparing for lift off. It’s several tense minutes—what if they’re not safe, what if those people follow them what if…—before they’re off the ground, but once they’ve left the Station’s gravity, Kimbley turns to Archer, still in the pilot chair.

“That was too close,” he mutters, “if the wound had been any deeper…”

The older man shakes his head, trying to dismiss the other’s worry. “It’s fine. I’ve already lost one limb, what’s another?” It’s a poor attempt at humor; his tone is deadpan, but he can’t bring himself to smirk at his own joke. He’s expecting Kimbley to brush it off, to bark a laugh and then use an insult to change the subject, so they can both forget this entire thing happened at all.

“Are you insane?” Kimbley spits back, glaring, clearly missing the joke entirely. “If it had been any deeper, it would have struck an artery! You wouldn’t have lost a limb, you’d be fucking _dead._ ” He swivels away, staring instead at the console as Archer sits in silence. There aren’t many he’d tolerate yelling at him. If he’s being honest with himself, there certainly seems to be more to this dance of theirs than two men using each other for sexual gratification. He’s not sure when that changed. It must have been years ago. He doesn't know how to classify Kimbley's anger with him at the moment, but it'd be awkward to have the man mad the entire flight, so eventually he reaches out, left-handed, to lay a hand on Kimbley's shoulder.

A part of him has always wondered if the younger man is bothered by his mechanical arm, even if Kimbley has never said anything about it. But then a moment later, Kimbley leans into the touch, and Archer shoves the thoughts from his mind. “How long has it been?” Archer asks, without bothering to clarify.

“Since…?” Kimbley says without looking at him.

“Since you…” but he trails off as the other man turns to look at him, raising a brow at Kimbley's expression. “What?”

“I want to try something,” Kimbley says, and there's a glint in his eyes Archer would find infuriating if it were anyone else. 

“…Which is?”

“C’mon,” the younger pirate purrs. “Don’t you trust me?” Archer sighs, a concession. The younger man grins, his golden eyes alert, leaning in to plant a kiss on Archer’s lips. Whatever he had been expecting, it somehow wasn’t this. Even if it should have been. He wraps both arms around Kimbley’s shoulders, returning the kiss eagerly. God, he’s needed this.

When they pull away, it takes a moment for them to both catch their breath, and even then, neither moves away from the other. Kimbley pulls Archer closer, resting his head on Archer’s left shoulder. What should he say, if anything? Especially considering how quickly the pirate had gone from being angry to affectionate. There are certainly questions worth asking, but he’s a little afraid they’ll be dismissed again so easily.

He hesitates for a moment, before bringing a hand to touch Kimbley’s head, and when that doesn’t earn a negative response, lets himself pet the other man’s hair. They’re never this affectionate with each other even when they’re fucking, whatever has happened… well. He has an idea what changed. “Kimbley?” he says eventually, just to make sure the other hasn’t fallen asleep on him.

“Hm?”

“You're coming with me, you realize. I’m not letting you leave after today.” In any other circumstance, with any other person, it would be an implicit threat, a promise of harm. With Kimbley, it doesn't even net more verbal a response than a vague affirmative noise. Whatever their relationship is, he doesn’t want to let go of it. Even if he’s the one who’s injured, if anyone were to harm Kimbley…

There’s a reason crews are so small; with both of their crews combined, power struggles could be a big issue. Archer’s have never been too loyal—there's a reason why he’s had such a high turnover, even a man with a fierce reputation such as Archer has trouble with people deciding they’re better off working solo. Sometimes they’re good men, too. It’s a pity when he has to get rid of the ones likely to stab him in the back.

Kimbley’s style of captaining, on the other hand… to say there’s a sense of family among him and his men is probably an overestimation; while Archer had never known Kimbley to rule by fear, at least not with his crew, it seems more like earned respect for a man so honed-in on violence. Though the fact that the sharper man has had the same crew of five the entire time Archer has known him says _something_ about him.

Maybe it’s nothing more than he’s more trustworthy to a bunch of cutthroats than a former high-ranking member of law enforcement. 

“I wouldn’t let you chase me off, not now,” Kimbley mutters into his shoulder. “Jackass.”

He can’t help but smile. Even with the wound, with the pain in his shoulder, this has given him something to think about. Something important.


	5. Chapter 5

When Kimbley wakes, his first thought is that he doesn’t remembering falling asleep. He doesn’t move right away, only doing so once he’s realized Archer is fast asleep. He smirks a little. The man’s head is tucked into his shoulder, face lax—but not completely. There’s a little frown knit into his face as though he's dreaming about something tedious. It’s not the greatest of ideas, having both pilots asleep, but there aren’t any alarms on the console, the autopilot humming away.

When he’s sleeping like that, with his face slack and his brows furrowed, Archer’s actually pretty cute, Kimbley thinks to himself, before he realizes what he’s thinking, and shoves it from his mind lest the older pirate suddenly find himself capable of reading Kimbley’s thoughts.

It’s not what he needs right now, so he busies himself with looking out the window. There’s not much to see, really; the black emptiness of space, occasional bits and pieces of Central in the corner as the ship makes its slow route to one of the outposts of the Station. When he had been younger, he’d seen the photographs of bright, beautiful nebulas; of galaxies clustered together. The reality had ended up being a lot less romantic: nebulas, it turned out, weren’t actually anything special. The single photographs were nothing more than dozens of photographs stitched together, making something invisible to human eyes visible. The windows of the ship? They didn’t have photographic lenses one on top of the other to allow one to see the richness of space. And even with all the technology at its disposal, humanity had never left the galaxy.

He’d have felt lied to, if he had ever been interested in exploring the cosmos. When you start stealing to survive, you don’t have much time to stargaze. Not that he’s been in dire straits for a long time now.

Archer’s groan catches his attention, and he turns to look at the other man, smirking. “Morning, sunshine,” he says with a wicked smile on his lips.

Archer groans again, bringing his human hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Have you been watching me sleep the entire time?” he asks, as though the idea were merely an annoyance.

Kimbley barks a laugh, leaning into his seat. “No,” he says truthfully. “Why, did you want me to?”

A faint red tinge emerges on Archer’s cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says.

“I was keeping watch over the console,” Kimbley says eventually. “Not the best thing in the world, having us both asleep.” Casual conversation has never been something he’s particularly good at, but at least it’ll keep Archer from fuming over being teased. Archer makes an affirmative noise but doesn’t offer any commentary. 

“Hey,” Kimbley says, when the silence between them lingers a little too long for his liking. “Can I ask you something?”

Archer actually leans back into his chair, like he’s either still tired, or resigned to having Kimbley bother him. “Go ahead,” he says, his tone surprisingly even.

“Can you… see out of that red eye of yours,” he says, hoping his tone doesn’t sound smug. The red eye, held onto Archer’s face with some sort of alloy, stands out. It makes him look intimidating—at least, that’s what the rumors all indicate. The eye doesn’t look human, sure, but it’s never threatened him. He keeps his hands in his lap, head tilted just slightly to the side. Just to make sure he doesn’t go touching Archer’s face out of the blue.

“Somewhat,” Archer says after a while. If the question bothers him, he doesn’t show it on his face. “It reads heat signatures. There are times when I need to stop its readings; it can be rather overstimulating.” He taps at the plate wrapped around the side of his head.

“What else can it do?” Kimbley’s grin is wolfish. 

“I can see further with it than with my other eye. Rather like zooming in on a camera, but with a bit more clarity.” He pauses when he sees Kimbley’s grin widen. “What?”

Kimbley leaned back further in his chair, arms stretching upwards to rest comfortably behind his head. “You ever use it to spy on me?”

Archer’s ears turn pink. “For heaven’s sake, Kimbley!”

The pirate laughs quietly, satisfied with his own joke.

When Archer finally regains his composure, he sits up in the chair, looking out the window carefully. “How long do we have left before we reach the destination?” He sounds so paranoid, like he’s afraid to even call it the West Outpost out loud, lest someone interested in harming him listen in on their conversation. Kimbley bites down the impulse to tease him again.

“Another thirty minutes, according to the autopilot.”

Archer shifts in his chair, just to confirm the time is correct. Kimbley smirks at him, a silent question asking if Archer trusts him or not. The other man responds by leaning into his chair, looking caught and sullen. “When we land, I’ll have a doctor take another look at my injury. Perhaps he can clean up the stitches.” Kimbley snorts, making Archer frown. “What’s so funny about that?”

“No doctor’s gonna reopen your wound. If they do, they’re probably lying about their credentials.” To say nothing about assuming every doctor in West Outpost would be a _man_ , but that’s teasing for another time. “They’d only do it if there was a bullet lodged in you or something, but that’s the wrong kind of weapon.” Bullets, superheated balls of energy… either way, it’s going to hurt like fuck. At least without bullets, the wounds are less likely to become infected.

“Bullets? How old-fashioned.”

Kimbley can’t help it, he laughs at the statement, and can’t immediately stop laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Archer’s glaring now, and it makes it more difficult for Kimbley to smother his laughter.

“ _You_ , calling something old-fashioned!”

Archer’s glare is cold. There aren’t many he would tolerate making fun of him, and Kimbley knows it well. Call it arrogance, call it foolishness, but he knows as easily as he breathes that Archer would never hurt him. Eventually Archer’s expression drops into something more neutral, and Kimbley stops snickering, leaning back into his seat lazily. “Fuck,” Kimbley says, stretching out his back, his arms. “I could do with sleeping in a real bed for a change.”

“You didn’t get your fill from the bar this afternoon?”

“Are you kidding me? That bed was like sleeping on a slab of wood. My back’s going to hurt for a week.” As soon as he says it, he knows he’s said the wrong thing, because Archer’s eyes light up with delight. 

“Are you certain that’s the bed’s fault?” he asks innocently.

Kimbley has to look away for a moment, biting at his lip before he masks it with a smirk. “What, you want to rent a room with me?” he asks. He doesn’t think it’s going to throw Archer off, not when the man still has that _look_ in his eyes. He half expects Archer to say something about his shoulder, but the man does no such thing, instead leaning in close, whispering in Kimbley’s ear even though they’re the only two people in the room.

“I’d be delighted to.”


	6. Chapter 6

They barely lock the door behind them before they’re yanking at each other’s clothing, kissing passionately. They only break the kiss long enough to breath, before Kimbley tangles his finger in Archer’s hair, Archer yanking out Kimbley’s ribbon from his own hair. It’s incredibly inelegant, but it goes smoothly until Archer’s shin connects with the corner of the bed. “Shit,” he hisses, and Kimbley’s eyes dilate. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, his mouth centimeters away from Archer’s. “It’s hot hearing you curse.” The statement is as much a compliment as it is a distraction, because before he can process what’s happening, Kimbley has shoved him into the bed. It would be easy enough to overpower the man with just his left arm, but then, why would he want to? Kimbley makes short work of the rest of Archer’s clothing. Careful, he notes, not to accidentally rip a button off Archer’s shirt. The shirt gets dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, along with his trousers. It’s messy, and Archer opens his mouth to complain before Kimbley snakes onto him, pressing a hot kiss on his mouth.

Archer bites at Kimbley’s lower lip, earning a playful growl from the other man. He realizes, belatedly, he’s still holding onto Kimbley’s ribbon, because Kimbley pulls it from Archer’s grasp, looking it over carefully. “Hey,” he says, in that obnoxious tone that indicates he’s thought of something. “How about I play interrogator for a change?”

There’s a look in his eyes that makes it clear Kimbley is thinking Archer’s going to turn him down. They’ve been through a lot today, but when has that ever stopped Frank Archer from getting what he wants? “What makes you think I’d let you?” he purrs lowly, watching Kimbley for any sign of weakness. Kimbley’s brows arch upward, like he’s considering it a real challenge. He’s long since stopped worrying about anything unpleasant happening.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kimbley responds, licking his lips, looking like he isn’t the least bit worried. He tugs at his own clothing, apparently willing to sacrifice a bit of the scenario for making sure both of them are completely nude first. “You’re down one arm. I can just tie your useful one to the board, then you’re out of luck.” He’s smirking, grabbing Archer’s left arm—not his injured one. They’ve both changed. It should bother him more. Kimbley makes a show of tying it with his hair ribbon, but the ribbon isn’t very strong, and the metal arm means Archer could effortlessly rip it from the tie.

But he doesn’t. That would ruin the entire point of this game.

“See?” Kimbley purrs, climbing atop Archer, grinning, leaning forward to kiss the other man passionately. Archer lets him, moving to snake his fingers through Kimbley’s hair with his free hand. It doesn’t hurt much if he limits his movement, and Kimbley does nothing to protest Archer not following the rules of their game, only pulling away to catch his breath, panting. 

“I suppose,” Archer replies, breathless. 

“Think this place has got any lube?” 

Archer groans impatiently. “Are you telling me you’ve lost yours since this afternoon?”

Kimbley snickers, entirely unashamed of walking around the hotel room stark naked making a show of digging through the various drawers in the room. Archer could, very easily, pull himself from the restraint. He _could_ demand this all stop, though he knows that wouldn’t impress the other man. So he decides on something else. “Are you certain you don’t want me to fuck you again?”

It’s enough to get Kimbley to spin around, eyes lit from the vulgarity. It’s not very often Frank Archer loses himself enough to curse. “You’re _that_ into this, and I’ve barely touched you. Hell no! I should let you wriggle around a bit, first. See how long you go before you’re begging me.” There’s no bite to it, no threat, it’s all talk. But Archer would be lying if he denied that a part of him finds the idea of Kimbley denying him something he desperately wants until he’s begging incredibly erotic. Kimbley continues to rummage around the room before he sighs dramatically, like he’s given up. Only to stoop down and grab his slacks up off the floor, pulling the bottle of lube out of his pocket before dumping the pants back onto the carpet.

He stalks towards the bed, looking like he’s trying to act like some overgrown housecat, crawling onto the bed, up to where Archer is laying. He takes Archer’s right hand gently, placing it up near the headboard. The illusion of Archer being tied to the bed, without risk of further injury. Like this, it’s obvious how small Kimbley is. He’s all wiry muscle and sinew, muscles defined, but nevertheless skinny.

Archer is bigger than he is, bulkier. In a battle of sheer body mass, Archer could win easily. Kimbley snakes up to him, curling up against Archer, like he’s about to forego sex entirely, instead kissing at the side of Archer’s neck. “Fuck, you’re sexy,” he murmurs. He’s never been put off by the eye, and it makes Archer swell with pride. He doesn’t care if anyone else in the galaxy likes it, because Kimbley _does._

Kimbley moves, sitting up. Grabbing one of the pillows and effortlessly lifting Archer’s hips up long enough to slide it under him. Archer smirks, letting him. It’s sweet, watching Kimbley put all this effort into something. Especially considering their quickie in the pub earlier today. Kimbley’s already half-hard, and logically, Archer knows, this is usually when they fight over who tops, no matter where the position initially started. But he doesn’t move to do anything of the sort, only watching as Kimbley pours more lube onto his fingers than is really needed.

He moves slowly, with more care than Archer usually sees from him, fingers moving and stretching, and only stopping briefly when Archer lets out a low, but audible, moan.

“Get on with it, Kimbley,” he hisses, when Kimbley instead goes right back to the overly slow ministrations.

Kimbley stops being as gentle, lining himself up, one hand gripping Archer’s hip harder than he needs to. He presses inside, letting out a low, stuttering moan. Archer’s back twists, rising up, trying to rock his hips against Kimbley’s, even as Kimbley makes a half-hearted attempt to still him. It’s fast, hard. At some point Archer is vaguely aware that his right hand is wrapped tightly around Kimbley, Kimbley stroking him hard, muttering obscenities into Archer’s ear that thrill instead of annoy him.

“God—Kimbley, _fuck!_ ”

Kimbley’s laugh is breathless, stuttered. “Should do this more often. Get you like this. You’re so fucking hot.”

Archer barely knows what he’s saying, muttering and moaning nonsense with each thrust of his hips against Kimbley. “Love you so much. Never met anyone so perfect. No one else,” the words forgotten as soon as they leave his lips. Kimbley’s babbling too, something that sounds like “You too, no one else but you,” but Archer isn’t even registering it.

They cry out together, Archer aware of the sticky mess on his stomach, but too blissed out to care. Kimbley pulls out of him slowly, expression blissful and eyes half lidden. He sighs contentedly, curling up against Archer, looking like he could fall asleep right then. They’re a sticky mess, and Archer isn’t going to be able to lay here like this for much longer, but he doesn’t even have to complain about it, because Kimbley is untying the ribbon from his arm. Archer wraps both arms around Kimbley, protective, possessive. 

They can’t lay like this for long; Archer is much too obsessed with cleanliness. But for now, that can wait. It’s ridiculously comforting, and after everything that’s happened today, all he wants to do is curls up against the other man and forget about his problems.


	7. Chapter 7

In the end, Archer is only able to curl up next to Kimbley for ten minutes before the sensations become too uncomfortable for him, and he has to pull away from the other man. Kimbley makes an unhappy noise of protest but makes no effort to stop him. “Goddamn prude,” he mutters as Archer sits up, but falls silent when Archer brushes a hand through his hair.

“I won’t be long,” Archer says truthfully, not even bothering to cover himself as he moves quickly to the bathroom.

He shuts the door, turning on the hot water of the shower immediately. The room is small, but it’ll do. The shower is likely large enough for the two of them, even if Archer isn’t certain he wants to go for a round two. His relationship with Kimbley has long since progressed past the point of being purely physical, he just wishes he knew when, exactly, everything changed. The warmth of the water against his back, against his shoulders, gives him something else to think about. He leans forward, under the faucet, eyes closed.

It’s not lost on him, the sweet nothings in his ear, the fact that Kimbley was careful not to injure Archer further. Kimbley trusts Archer completely; there had never been a doubt in his mind that Archer wouldn’t harm him during their game. And that wasn’t misplaced— Archer doesn’t think he could harm Kimbley even if he wanted to. They’ve changed so much. He’s not sure he wants to think about it, what that could possibly mean.

It’s easy to think like this, right now, alone with his own thoughts. Without Kimbley distracting him with his large amber eyes, with the infuriating smirk on his lips.

Their relationship, how much Kimbley means to him, and how Archer had thought it was impossible for himself to feel so deeply for someone else.

When he leaves the bathroom, towel wrapped carefully around his hips, Archer looks around in surprise. Kimbley has changed the sheets—though the old ones are in a pile on the floor, off to the side away from their clothing. He’s sitting up in bed, typing away at a laptop that Archer doesn’t remember seeing him bring in with him.

He slides back into bed, not bothering to dress in something else, next to Kimbley, watching the computer screen with only mild interest. Right now, he’d rather sleep. Archer doesn’t understand why Kimbley is still awake. Kimbley turns without speaking, kissing Archer on the corner of his mouth, before his attention is on the laptop once more. Archer touches the side of his mouth, feeling flush. It’s so _domestic_ , too kind of a gesture. It takes him longer than he’d like to speak, finally saying, “What are you doing?” and hoping he doesn’t sound too thrown by the kiss.

“Trying to figure out who the hell those red guys were that attacked us.”

“Any luck?”

“No,” Kimbley says with a shrug. “I guess they probably weren’t after us in particular; it was probably some kind of hit on someone in the pub, maybe the owner or something. Annoying bastards.” 

Archer looks at Kimbley’s screen, at the scattered reports he’s pulled up of people dressed in red. They don’t look rough enough to be pirates, but it’s also highly unlikely they’re any kind of law enforcement. Even if he knew how to proceed, Archer’s gut tells him to stay the hell out of it. He’s got enough problems of his own, just dealing with rival pirates (but not Kimbley), and police who think they can take him down.

Eventually, Kimbley shuts the screen, huffing in frustration. “Whoever these guys are, I don’t care. Not interested, unless they try and shoot up my ship again.” He sets the computer down with more care than he has anything else, and rolls so he’s on his side. “Bastards ruined my ship,” he mutters darkly.

Archer doesn’t know what to say in response, so he moves to pet Kimbley’s hair, earning a pleased noise. They’re quiet for a while, before Kimbley breaks the silence by laughing, just slightly. It’s a breathy sound, almost not audible.

“What’re you laughing at?” Archer asks quietly.

“Oh, nothing.” Kimbley’s voice is light, a clear indication he thinks he’s being funny. “I was just thinking about what some of the guys back home would think about me having the hots for a man ten years my senior.”

“I’m not _that_ much older than you,” Archer mutters.

“Sorry. Nine years and three-hundred-sixty-four days my senior.” 

Archer doesn’t take the bait. “You really find me attractive?”

Kimbley barks a laugh. “You’re asking me _now?_ ” He does have a point. Archer can feel the flush growing in his face, and he looks away for a long moment, just long enough to compose himself.

“Seven,” Archer says finally. “I’m seven years older than you.”

Kimbley doesn’t respond right away, instead curling up closer to Archer. “You complain too much,” he says, smirking. He raises an arm up in the air, stretching and flexing his muscles. It’s enough of a show that Archer is supposed to be watching it too, though he can’t think of a reason why Kimbley is trying to impress him. “How long has it been, since we first met?” he asked. It’s a rhetorical question, Archer knows that much. If the silence lingers too long, Kimbley will fill it with his own answer.

“Ten years,” Archer says quietly, and by the look Kimbley is giving him, he probably would have purposefully misstated his answer to get Archer to correct him. “As I recall, you were nothing more than a punk kid back then.”

Kimbley snorts. “’Kid!’” he laughs. “If twenty-seven is a kid to you, then you’re a damn old man.”

Archer tenses despite himself. There’s no bite to it, no real insult. Kimbley is the only person Archer has ever met who can say things to him, the grating nicknames, hurling insults all the while letting Archer know that the only thing to them at all is notes of affection that Kimbley wouldn’t bother giving anyone else. “And how long has it been since you stopped sleeping around?” he asks sarcastically. He’s not expecting a response, because a part of him doesn’t think Kimbley ever _has._

Kimbley is silent for a long time, and when he responds, the answer is quieter than Archer has ever heard him speak before. “Eight years, I think? That sounds right.” The silence between them is pronounced, but not uncomfortable. Kimbley curls up against Archer like he hasn’t given an incredibly intimate answer. Like he’s about to fall asleep right after saying something so sweet. Does he even realize what he’s just admitted?

“I think it’s been about that long for me as well,” Archer admits.

Kimbley makes a _pff_ sound against Archer’s shoulder. “Like you were having all kinds of sex before you met me.” As usual, there’s no barb to it. It doesn’t even make Archer tense, though he does frown. 

“And how would you know that?”

“Because you’re a goddamn prude,” is the sleepy retort.


	8. Chapter 8

Kimbley wakes to see light spilling into the hotel room’s window. It’s startling, because he doesn’t remember falling asleep. Archer is asleep beside him and isn’t _that_ unusual, because Archer has always been extremely punctual. He’s clearly in a deep sleep; the frown from his nap yesterday gone and replaced with slack features. Kimbley peels himself away carefully, moving to quietly pick his discarded clothes off the floor, sliding his briefs and trousers on carefully, before he sits back on the bed. He can’t think of a single previous time he’d spent the entire night with the other man.

Then again, all of those previous other times hadn’t ended with Kimbley confessing he’d been seeing Archer exclusively for nearly a decade. He brushes a hand against one of the scars Archer had given him years back, when they were still enemies. He likes them, they make him look like he’s been through hell. Even if nearly all his scars are his own damn fault.

He slinks into the bathroom before Archer can wake, locking the door shut, breathing out loudly through his mouth, glaring at his reflection. Leave it to Zolf J Kimbley to complicate what should have been two pirates using each other to have fun. Two aging pirate, Kimbley notes grumpily, yanking a gray hair out of his head.

Well.

They _have_ been seeing each other for eight years. And Archer had practically demanded that Kimbley move in with him yesterday.

He had also, Kimbley remembers with a snort, agreed without hesitation. Dammit, he’s getting too soft. “When the hell did you let yourself fall for the guy?” he growls at his reflection. His reflection offers no answers, only glaring back at him. 

“Kimbley?” the voice outside the door is alarmed, and Kimbley has to bite back the impulse to laugh. Did Archer think he’d left with all his stuff still here?

“Just washing up,” Kimbley calls back quickly. It’s easy enough to do; wash his face off with cold water. Try to comb his hair back into submission with just his fingers, and wishing he had some hair dye, because his almost salt-and-pepper hair is probably two years away from being mostly salt.

He saunters out of the bathroom, smirking. Archer is sitting up in bed, and doesn’t look like he’s moved much. He’s still completely naked. Kimbley makes a show of looking Archer up and down hungrily, but the older man doesn’t do much more than stare back at him. Apparently first thing in the morning isn’t a good time to remind Archer he’s still attractive as hell.

“I thought perhaps you had left,” Archer admits sulkily. 

“Without my boots and computer?” Kimbley grins. “You’re my ride outta here, in case you’ve already forgotten.”

Archer makes a face like it’s physically painful to admit he’s wrong. “I _suppose_ I was overreacting. I don’t sleep in normally.”

Kimbley sits on the bed, lounging lazily, his hands folded behind his head. “I’m that great, huh?”

The bridge of Archer’s nose turns a faint shade of pink, and isn’t that a cute, new reaction. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His face is so pale normally, the red of his cheeks is adorable. And the denial does absolutely nothing to change how flustered the man looks. Kimbley slides over so he’s straddling Archer’s lap. The older man gives an exaggerated sigh but says nothing. He doesn’t even say anything when Kimbley leans in close to kiss the corner of his mouth again, making him tense up immediately before he seems to catch himself, hand moving up to touch Kimbley on the shoulder. “We’re not going for round two,” Archer mutters, and Kimbley laughs.

“And you’re calling _me_ ridiculous,” Kimbley says, before wraps his arms around Archer, leaning against him. Two days ago, this would have been too intimate for both of them. Kimbley leans against Archer’s chest, just content with being close.

Archer huffs. “I never know with you,” he mutters darkly. “You’re always up to something.”

Kimbley laughs, because it’s true enough. “And just yesterday, you were telling me you weren’t going to let me out of your sight.” Those hadn’t been Archer’s exact words, but that had been the sentiment. The possessiveness, the protectiveness, thrills him. Frank Archer is not a man who makes friends, yet here they are, with Kimbley draped over him, and Archer not doing much more than pouting. It's, frankly, ridiculous. Especially knowing that Archer would never let a single other person see him looking so vulnerable, so human. “Hey,” Kimbley says, touching Archer on the side of his jaw with one finger. Just enough to get Archer to look at him.

“What?”

“We should get a bigger ship.”

“Kimbley, I can’t afford something like that.” Archer frowns.

“I said ‘we’,” Kimbley says, smirking. “This ship’s too small for all of us, and I doubt there’s space for me in the captain’s quarters.” He doesn’t bother to move from Archer’s lap. It’s too comfortable. “So let’s get a bigger one.”

“The only ones that are bigger are transport ships,” Archer huffs. “Do you want to put a target on my back?”

“Our backs,” Kimbley corrects. “And no. We don’t need a transport ship, you’re just being paranoid. Just one with a little bit more living space to keep our boys from killing each other. And a bit more space for us.” It’s easy enough for him to list off, even while Archer looks less than convinced.

“You always talk like it’s such an easy thing to do,” Archer sighs. But it’s not a no. “Can you really afford something like that?”

Kimbley snorts. “I didn’t keep my money in my ship. We’re both buying, right?”

Archer’s lips twitch upwards. “I didn’t expect you to take me so seriously,” he says, looking amused. But he’s pleased. They’ve known each other for a long time; it’s not exactly possible for them to keep things from each other. He wraps an arm around Kimbley, just holding him close. “I like this,” he confesses after a long moment. Kimbley smiles despite himself.

“Yeah. I like it too,” he agrees. “We’re good. Good for each other.” Confessing it feels like a weight lifting off his shoulder. Archer doesn’t still, but he doesn’t say anything. He runs his hand through Kimbley’s hair, humming.

This quiet moment is bound not to last, but Kimbley will enjoy it for as long as it does.


	9. Chapter 9

“Kimbley, what on _Earth?_ ”

When Kimbley had told Archer he’d be purchasing a ship, and Archer had lent him—no, given him—money, Archer had figured the ship wouldn’t be much bigger than Archer’s current ship. Anything bigger would be a transport, and while smuggling is certainly something he’s done in the past, he’s never seen the need for something enormous. Too big of a target.

The ship he’s found himself standing in front of is easily twice the size of his current one, but it’s also not one of the large transport ships. Its weapons dot the front and side of the ships here and there, and Kimbley pats at the siding of one of the engines affectionately. “How much?” Archer asks eventually, swallowing.

“Fifty,” Kimbley says proudly.

“Fifty what?”

“Fifty million?”

Archer gapes. “ _Fifty million?_ ” He can’t believe what he’s just heard. “You spent fifty million cenz?”

Kimbley still looks smug and confident, his chest puffing out. “I’m not going to get us a ship that’s too small to fit the crew in.” But that’s not the problem, the problem is that Archer had only given him a fifth of the cost of the ship, expecting himself to pay for most of it. Kimbley is far better with money than he has been giving the man credit for. Archer runs his hand along the siding curiously.

“This is impressive,” Archer says eventually.

Kimbley gives him a look like it’s been years since the last time he’s been compliment.

“Wanna take a tour? How about we break in the bed?”

“ _Kimbley._ ”

Kimbley raises his hands in mock defeat. “Okay, okay,” he says, but he looks far too amused. Archer doesn’t trust him to not do anything crass. But Kimbley doesn’t do anything immediately, throwing the hatch open and motioning for Archer to follow him inside.

The hallways of ships are never exactly spacious; they’re always cramped, maximizing space in other areas, only focused on making the hallways a place to go from one section to the next in the most efficient way possible. But the pathways in this ship definitely _feel_ more open, without the cramped sense that it’s a place where people live in for months at a time. He nearly makes a comment insisting that the first place Kimbley leads him not be to their shared bedroom, but it occurs to him that Kimbley doesn’t know his way around either, because he keeps looking at a map. “This is storage,” he says, stopping at a closed door and pressing the lock open. He whistles loudly, clearly pleased.

Archer peeks in, one brow arched delicately. The room is rather large; it’s easily twice the size of the largest closet on his own ship. “Are you showing off?” He can’t decide whether or not to be annoyed.

“Wouldn’t you?”

Archer sighs. “Why don’t you show me the rest of the ship?”

Kimbley nods with an enthusiastic grin, showing off the mess half, crew quarters, a few more storage rooms, the cockpit. There’s a lot to see, and the banter between them slows their tour through the ship. It’s only when they come to the captain’s quarters when Kimbley’s grin returns. He opens the door and whistles, stepping inside. The room itself is easily twice the size of the individual rooms for crew members, and Archer watches with dismay as Kimbley wastes no time jumping onto the bed. He’s still in his boots, even if he legs do hang off the edge of the bed.

He finally looks at Archer, a smile on his lips. “Would you quit staring at me from the doorway and come here?”

Archer sits next to him, closer than he needs to. Closer than he would have two days ago. “It might take a while to transfer everything,” he says, just to make conversation.

Kimbley shrugs. “Doesn’t bug me. Wasn’t like there was a whole lot salvageable from my ship. The guys got what they could off of it. We’ll just have to shack up here if it’s overnight.” He punctuates it with a wink, and Archer stiffens. He keeps his shoulders straight, hoping he’s indicating he’s not at all interested in doing this again any time soon.

Even if he is. Very much.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s only after they’ve spent the better part of two days moving everything from Archer’s ship to the new one that he feels like he has any time at all to rest. It’s fascinating, in a strange way, how Kimbley’s presence in the captain’s quarters doesn’t trigger Archer’s paranoia. He’s used to being guarded, making sure his back is always against a wall when near other people. Including his own crew. But Kimbley can stand behind him, walk up behind him before throwing one or both arms around Archer’s shoulder, and barely make him tense, let alone treat Kimbley like a threat to his life.

They’ve shared the bed, and even if nothing sexual has happened since the night in the hotel, the fact of the matter is Archer has grown used to the idea that he _wants_ Kimbley with him in the morning. It’s alarming how fast that happened, how waking up to Kimbley not being in bed with him that first morning had been a shock to his system, and how much relief had crashed through him when Kimbley had called back to him from the bathroom.

Kimbley comes up from behind, his head resting on Archer’s shoulder as he holds out a cup of tea. “Here,” he says, and Archer takes it, tipping his head so he’s leaning against Kimbley’s.

“Thank you,” he says, and is surprised when Kimbley doesn’t immediately peel out of the touch.

“Mm,” Kimbley murmurs. “I don’t have a lot of experience making it. It taste all right?”

Archer tries it, just a sip. “This is good,” he praises, a smile on his lips. “It could use some honey, though.” 

Kimbley snorts. “I don’t make a habit of eating honey,” he says. “But I guess I could make an exception for you.” They don’t have a kitchen in their private room, but it seems that Kimbley has gotten comfortable enough with the kitchen in the mess hall to use the stove. Or bully someone else into using it for him.

“You don’t _eat_ honey,” Archer says, his tone irritated, though Kimbley will be able to hear the teasing for what it really is. “You put a small amount in tea to sweeten it.”

The younger pirate laughs, stretching out his arms above him, peeling away from the touch. “Sure, sure,” he says with a shrug. “Are we going grocery shopping, then, because that’s a new one for me.” He’s smirking, though, so it’s clear he isn’t being serious. And as much as Archer finds the idea funny, it’s not a good idea, not for them. There’s a reason food orders are handled so carefully. It’ll need to be done just as carefully now that they’ve combined their resources together. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

“To one of the moons outside of the Station. Dublith, it ought to be a safe enough place. Maybe we can find out what our next target is. There’s a pub where we can ask around, see if anyone is familiar with those people dressed in red.” Archer might not want to take them on in a battle—they seemed much too battle-savvy for it to be worth the risk, but knowing the enemy is one of the better options he can think of. It’ll mean they have the advantage to run away, if they must. 

“Dublith, huh? No shit. I don’t think I’ve been back there in twenty years.”

“You’ve been to Dublith?” Archer asks, curious. He and Kimbley have never exactly discussed their pasts before meeting each other.

“I’m _from_ Dublith,” Kimbley corrects. “After my dad died, I didn’t see any reason to ever go back. There’s a bunch of ranchers and only three pubs in the entire settlement,” he grumbles. 

Archer wants to ask more, but it would open him up to questions of his own, like who he was before he became a pirate—he may have met Kimbley only after resorting to piracy to regain everything he had lost after his accident, but that doesn’t mean people don’t know that Archer was once a well-respected member of the interstellar police force. “I see,” Archer says eventually, not sure what to say to that. If he can say anything.

He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to Kimbley casually telling him personal things.

Kimbley smiles at him. It’s awkward, but there’s a light in his eyes Archer only ever sees reserved for him. “You go ahead and drink your tea. I’ll punch in the coordinates, I think some of the guys are stocking up on supplies, so we can launch once they’re back.” He moves as if to go, but pauses at the door, his expression much lighter than Archer is used to. “Unless you want to come up front with me?” His hungry expression might just be an offer, probably is just an offer, but Archer hasn’t changed so much in the past few days as to find public sex appealing.

“N-no,” Archer says, stumbling over just the one word. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you up front when we’re ready to launch.”

Kimbley’s amber eyes narrow, just slightly. It feels worryingly predatory. “Suit yourself,” he says, shrugging a little before he walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He’s not angry, not even annoyed, and Archer can’t help feeling disappointed that Kimbley took the rejection without any protest at all.

It’s a shame he can’t sit back and enjoy his tea, but Archer still takes a few minutes to compose himself– and enough time to wash the dish in the sink in the mess hall– before he makes his way to the cockpit. A part of him is surprised not to see Kimbley napping on the console, but instead he swivels around, smirking. “’bout time. I thought you were pouting.” His expression is easy, unbothered. Like Archer rejecting him was a momentary disappointment and nothing more.

Actually, that’s probably exactly what it was. 

He sits next to Kimbley, watching the man for a long moment. “When in Dublith, my crew and I usually stay for a week or so,” he says, trying to make conversation but feeling like he’s failing. “I usually sleep in the ship.” It’s such a foolish thing to admit, especially when his crew will usually sleep at an inn. Especially because he barricades the door when he sleeps. But now, with Kimbley in the room with him, he doesn’t feel the need to do much more than lock the door.

It’s ridiculous.

“Why would you sleep in the ship?” Kimbley asks, like they’re having an everyday conversation, like Archer isn’t admitting to how paranoid he feels on a constant basis. “The inns on Dublith provide breakfast. The advantage of living on a tiny moon.” Dublith isn’t that small, really, but there’s only the one settlement on it; much of the moon is wild terrain. “All that hospitality drives me insane, but I bet you’d be into it.”

Archer frowns. “I prefer safety over comfort.”

Kimbley looks at him, clearly amused. “I’m going to make you sleep in a room like a normal person, not in here all by yourself. You don’t need to act so ridiculous,” he says.

“You can try,” Archer says, smirking. He wonders if he should have worded it like that, if Kimbley will take it as an innuendo.

By the look the other man is giving him, he certainly has.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s not until much later that they’ve found themselves in one of the nicer inns of Dublith. The entire crew fit in comfortably, and while they’re the rough sort, and everyone in the place must know exactly the sort of people they are, they’re welcomed openly. Small-town hospitality; Kimbley has to admit sometimes he misses it. It’s probably in a hope that the town isn’t going to be raided—or, more likely the longer he thinks of it— a sign of just how dependent on illicit activity Dublith’s economy is. Kimbley doesn’t remember that always being true, but he’d been a teenager when he left. Maybe he just hadn’t cared enough to pay attention.

He’s stretched lazily on the bed, half naked, watching Archer as he stares out the window like he’s expecting them to be attacked from their second-story room. He’s too comfortable to sit up and grab at the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table. The younger man knows just how much of a germaphobe Archer is, how uncomfortable the other pirate will get if Kimbley drinks it straight from the bottle instead of pouring himself a glass. “Enough of that,” he grumbles eventually, still not sitting up, but getting annoyed with Archer’s paranoid insistence of watching out the window. “You’re just staring at a bunch of ranchers and cows,” he complains.

Archer turns to look at him, brows raised, but he’s smirking. “If you insist,” he says, human eye giving Kimbley his full attention. He takes three long strides, sitting on the side of the bed, watching Kimbley. He doesn’t hesitate, reaching out to brush his right hand through Kimbley’s hair. Kimbley’s eyes fall half-lidded, tipping his head in Archer’s direction. 

“I do,” Kimbley murmurs, but he’s already satisfied with the attention he’s getting. “You don’t need to keep staring out the window, anyway. You’ve got me here.”

“When you’re falling asleep?” Archer asks, but he sounds amused. And he’s still petting Kimbley’s hair.

“I could wake up if I needed to,” Kimbley says, trying to sound confident but really only sounding half asleep. Archer smirks, the left side of his face angling upwards. He looks smug, too smug. Kimbley can’t help it when he says after a moment, “Come on. It’s not like we’re going to get ambushed out in the middle of nowhere.” He sits up, still feeling sleepy, but it helps meet Archer’s gaze, grabbing at Archer’s hand in his hair to twine their fingers together. They’re both violent pirates, scarred bodies and artificial limbs, with crew members who are just as violent as the two of them are. He’s tempted to pull Archer down onto him, to purr into the older man’s ear, little whispers of the things he wants done to him, wants to do to Archer.

It earns him a pointed stare, like Archer knows what’s on the other man’s mind. He probably has an idea. “Do you ever have anything on your mind that doesn’t involve sex?” There’s no bite to it at all; he’s smirking a little, because it wouldn’t take much to encourage him to go along with it. It makes Kimbley feel powerful, like he’s really gotten this prude of a man a little more interested in being wild, to really lose control. 

“If you’re going to be like that, maybe I should take you to see the neighbors,” Kimbley purrs, watching the challenge in Archer’s gaze, his human eye narrowing.

“Neighbors? I thought you said you haven’t been here in twenty years.”

“I haven’t.” It’s flippant, easy. Kimbley makes a show of swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stretches his arms out, the red gem he wears around his neck prominent against his collarbone. “Might be kind of fun to see how the place has changed.” He’s not sure how much of a reputation he even has; it’s not like people could pick him out of a crowd in the settlements out here. The people out here are more likely to recognize him as the kid who couldn’t stay out of trouble more than they are to recognize him as a smuggler. 

Archer tips his head a little, considering it. “Give me a half hour. I need to dress appropriately.”

**

It’s a little ridiculous, seeing Archer in a suit, and a patch over his red eye. He even has a traveler’s hat on, tilted ever so slightly to the left. He looks like an out of place merchant. It makes a decent disguise, even if the patch over his left eye makes him look a little out of place, but at the very least he’s left the thick leather gloves off. A mechanical hand isn’t so unusual as to attract unwanted attention, and a local hanging around him is going to keep him from looking too suspicious—even if Kimbley hasn’t been home in a long time.

They almost look normal walking through town, two people minding their own business without the roughness of hard stares and sharpened knives.

His hands in his jacket pockets, Kimbley tries to look casual, but he can’t help feeling like there are too many eyes on him. He’s a little too distinct-looking, with golden eyes and his nose broken from fights. At least Archer looks relaxed. Without their crew with them, they almost look like a normal couple. “If it’s been twenty years, that means you were a teenager last time you were here, correct?”

“Yeah. Left and never looked back.”

Archer stops walking abruptly. “At seventeen?”

Kimbley sighs loudly, twisting to get a good look at the other man. “Yeah. What of it?”

Archer gives him a look like he thinks he’s made a misstep, but Kimbley gestures for him to continue. “We haven’t spoken about our pasts in great detail,” he says awkwardly. He gestures to the necklace, to the cobblestone streets and the uneven stretches of road.

“Didn’t expect me to be a farm boy, huh?” Watching Archer flush red, his mouth snapping shut, shuffling with his awkward rich boy mannerisms.

“I didn’t… I mean, I…” 

He pats Archer on the shoulder, the right side so he can feel the exaggerated gesture all the more easily. “I’m teasing you.” He starts walking again, briskly, listening carefully to Archer’s footfalls behind him, the slightest of difference of weigh on his left side. His leg might still be human, but the extra weight changes the pirate’s movement. Just a little. They fall silent, and it’s a little like being on a date. Not two violent men seeing each other as something to use, not even as two men who have been exclusive long enough that “boyfriend” doesn’t sound like the right word. Kimbley stops walking to lean against a fence, kicking at the dirt and fidgeting with his necklace.

“What sort of stone is that?” Archer asks quietly. He’s never asked about the necklace before.

“It’s garnet.”

“It’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” Kimbley agrees. He doesn’t consider himself a very sentimental person, but he’s never felt right taking it off. It’s probably superstitious of him. “It used to belong to my mom. The gem, I mean. I’ve had to change the chain a handful of times, it’s not original.” He can’t see Archer’s face at this angle, staring instead at the necklace, because he doesn’t want to know what the pirate is thinking, he doesn’t understand why he’s talking so intimately about himself with Archer.

“…I see,” Archer says, quietly. It’s nice not being the only one feeling awkward. He still doesn’t look up, not even when he hears another pair of footsteps, these ones a little quicker—stopping near them. “Ah. Hello,” Archer murmurs, sounding awkward and wrong-footed, and that’s what finally makes him look up, the fact that whoever it is hasn’t moved on.

He can hardly believe his eyes, staring at the stern-faced woman in front of him, the dreadlocks of her hair tied neatly behind her, red tattoo prominent on her chest. She doesn’t look the least bit impressed to see him. Toned muscles belie her small frame. If he were to run, he wouldn’t get very far before she chased him down and threw him to the ground for his effort. Even all these years later, he knows better than to sneak away when she’s already looking unhappy at his return. “It’s been a long time, Zolf.”


End file.
